


give you more to hold on to

by cryptidkidprem



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Hands, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), or more like affection-starved, the humanity and the hands of it all you guys., the inherent humanity of being a gay angel or demon, they just love each other. that's it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22113700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidkidprem/pseuds/cryptidkidprem
Summary: Crowley nods. "It's..." He looks down at their joined hands, and takes a long, deep breath. “We’re not— We’re not supposed to need this, y’know?” He lifts their joined hands up, lets them fall again. “You and I. Angels, demons. We're not meant to need all this. This touchy-feely stuff, all this affection, this—” a hitch in his breath— “Love.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 287





	give you more to hold on to

Form shapes nature.

There are certain behaviors so intrinsic to humanity, they are built right into the DNA. Some things are just so fundamentally human they become impossible to avoid when one inhabits a human shape for long enough.

Indulging in a nice meal  from your favorite eatery after a long, hard day (even if you don’t need to eat, strictly speaking), oversleeping and missing an important event (or an entire century), falling in love with your best friend and being too scared of losing them to do anything about it, et cetera. Spend enough time in a human shape, and it’s impossible to stop a little — or a lot — of humanity from rubbing off on you, no matter how demonic or divine you might be.

Spend 6,023 years being human-shaped, and you might find that you’re more human than not. 

These things happen.

So Crowley spends 6,023 years on Earth, being human-shaped, and things happen.

And then, much to his surprise, the world doesn't end.

The world doesn't end, it starts anew and it keeps spinning. It keeps spinning, and the sun set last night and it rose this morning and then it set, again, not an hour ago, and it does all of this because of love. (And, yes, maybe that’s a sappy thing to say, but after everything, Crowley’s earned the right to be a bit sappy, hasn’t he?) Because of how much Adam Young loves Tadfield, because of how much four small children love each other, because of how much he and Aziraphale love — well.

Dangerous thought, that. Shouldn’t get his hopes up, really.

Aziraphale helped save the world because he loves a lot of things. Crowley can really just hope he makes the list somewhere, even if it’s not the same way Crowley loves him.

By some natural and unspoken agreement Crowley ends up back at the shop with Aziraphale after the world doesn't end. It’s an old routine, but it feels different, feels brand new, because it is now, in a way.

The light is fading, turning everything golden and warm as Crowley follows Aziraphale up the steps and waits with him outside the front door while he fishes his keys out of his jacket pocket.

Under the protection of his glasses, Crowley watches Aziraphale’s hands as he flips through his key ring. Crowley’s not even sure what half the keys are even _for_ , but he doesn’t bother to give it much thought as he watches a perfect finger finger slip through the keyring, thumbing through keys until he finds the right one, pad of his thumb brushing over metal teeth, the fading evening light glinting off of metal as he takes the key between two perfectly-manicured fingers.

Form shapes nature.

It’s not very demonic to go around staring at someone’s hands, angel or otherwise, and wonder what it might be like to be held between them.

And not even in. Uh. _That_ way — not that that would make it any more _properly demonic_ if it was. Common misconception, really, that demons go around oozing lust and seducing people this way and that. Not that they _never_ do, but the demons Crowley knows mostly go about letting the humans know they have options, and then the humans go off and do whatever it is they really wanted to do in the first place with each other.

Which is not to say Crowley’s opposed to things like that (quite the opposite, really. He’s given an embarrassing amount of thought to… things like that with Aziraphale), with the angel, but that is. Quite beside the point.

The point is, w hen he watches Aziraphale twist a key in the bookshop’s lock, sees his sleeve pull up so Crowley gets a really good show of wrist and skin and all the tendons and veins right beneath the surface, all he can think about fingers carding through his hair, or locking between his own; he’s thinking about a palm on his lower back, or holding his cheek like it’s something fragile and delicate.

He wants things that are almost unbearably tender. He wants to be handled gently.

It’s all… very human.

This thing that’s built itself up in Crowley’s heart is very, very human. The way Crowley loves Aziraphale can't be described in the language of the infernal or the divine; it can only properly be described in human terms.

Inhabit human shape long enough, you pick things up. All the love that lives inside of you starts to shape itself in a certain way; jagged and a little painful and endlessly joyous all at once. It’s stupid and marvelous and Crowley wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, even if it sometimes leaves him breathless with the image of finger's tangled in his hair. Sometimes Crowley’s not sure how he fits all of it inside of him. He doesn’t think this stupid body of his should be ably to _hold_ all of it, and yet in a way he knows it’s the only thing that will ever be able to hold it at all.

Aziraphale fiddles with the lock and it clicks into place. “That’s the ticket,” he mutters, snapping Crowley out of his thoughts, his eyes darting back up to meet Aziraphale’s in time to catch the smile on his face.

It’s okay. Crowley’s gotten good at pretending he wasn’t just staring at Aziraphale over the millennia he’s loved him, so he smiles back. “After you, angel,” he says, gesturing Aziraphale ahead of him into the shop.

He should go in first; he hasn’t really seen it yet. Crowley supposes Aziraphale never actually saw it in flames, but Crowley still thinks he should see it restored and whole again.

And maybe Crowley wants to see him inside, so _he_ knows, too. 

Crowley _did_ see the shop in flames, and the angel was gone, and— well. If he follows that train of thought any further he’ll fall apart, and he doesn’t need that when he’s only so recently patched himself back together, so he follows Aziraphale inside with his eyes, and then just follows him in, shutting the door gently behind himself and locking it as Aziraphale gets the lights.

Aziraphale makes a beeline for the back room, and Crowley hangs just inside the doorway. 

“Coming, dear?” Aziraphale asks, looking back over his shoulder and meeting Crowley's eyes across the shop when he notices that Crowley’s not moving.

That’s new; it’s usually ‘dear boy’ or ‘my dear,’ never just ‘ _dear_.’ Crowley isn’t sure what that means yet but that doesn't stop his heart reacting with a spastic flutter.

Crowley sticks his hand in his pockets, tilts his head to one side. “You’re not gonna, I dunno, check things out? Make sure everything's here and accounted for?”

“Oh, we've plenty of time for that later,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley gets to watch his face soften into a fond smile, and wonder if his face would that soft if Crowley were allowed to hold it in his hands. “I’d be a fairly poor host if I abandoned you for some books, wouldn’t I?”

Crowley almost points out that that has definitely never stopped him before, but he takes the hint and just shrugs instead, crossing the room to join Aziraphale.

Crowley’s shoulders relax infinitesimally. “So. Er. Drinks, then?”

“Ah, yes, good idea,” Aziraphale agrees, then turns and vanishes off into a corner where Crowley knows he keeps his wine collection.

They already had drinks at lunch, but this is what they _do._ Even though everything is different, they saved the world to be able to keep existing in each other’s orbits, so some continuity is welcome. Crowley lets out a slow breath and folds himself onto the sofa, letting himself settle into the familiar comfort of this seat in the back of this shop and all the comfort that brings with it.

It’s like he hadn’t realized just how _exhausting_ this past week has been until he’s in a place where he finally feels well and truly safe. His eyes slide shut and he leans back, practically melting into the cushions, and he lets out a low hum (which he’ll be damned thrice over before he actually admits is actually more of a relieved whimper).

“Crowley?”

“Mm?” Crowley peeks an eye open, looking up at the angel standing over him with a bottle of something nice (Crowley can’t read the label the way it’s positioned, half-covered by Aziraphale’s fingers, but he trusts the angel’s taste. All his wines are something nice) in his left hand, his right gently cupped around two crystal glasses, stems poking out between his fingers, thumb held on a rim.

Aziraphale sets the glasses and the wine on the table, and Crowley fights the impulse to slip his own hands into the empty space now vacated by crystal and glass.

“We don’t have to drink right now, if you’re tired,” Aziraphale says, something soft lacing his voice and breezing through Crowley, unwinding him even more. “You can just rest, if you like.”

Crowley pushes himself fractionally more upright — he doesn’t want to lose the comfort, but he doesn’t want Aziraphale to think he’s about to pass out, either. “Nuh,” he says. “I’m alright. Not tired, just…” he trails off, trying to put what he’s feeling into words. It takes him a moment, because he realizes that he’s never really felt this way in all the six millennia he’s been walking the face of this planet. “Relaxed. S’nice, angel. I wanna be here.”

“Oh, yes, well,” Aziraphale starts, and if Crowley didn’t know better he might even say Aziraphale sounds _nervous_. “I didn’t mean you should _leave_. You can rest _here_.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” Crowley tells him. “Just meant. Y’know.” He clears his throat. “Wanna spend time with you.”

“Alright then,” Aziraphale says gingerly. “If you say so.”

He sits, not opposite Crowley as he usually does, but right beside him on the couch, snagging the wine as he settles into the cushions. He leans over the table to pour a healthy dose of wine into both glasses, passing one off to Crowley. Crowley takes it, and there’s a half-second where his fingers overlap Aziraphale’s, their hands brushing together just enough to set the ever-present warmth in Crowley’s chest into a proper blaze.

But he’s used to that, too; used to pretending Aziraphale doesn’t make him go gooey down to his fucking _atoms_ , so he just smiles and says, “Cheers,” holding his glass up.

“Cheers,” Aziraphale returns softly, clinking his glass against Crowley’s.  They drink, and Crowley can’t keep his eyes off Aziraphale. 

He's so close. He never sits this close. 

He never just calls Crowley ‘dear’ like they're some old married couple or something, and he never sits this close, close enough to touch.  But then again, before yesterday, Aziraphale also never held Crowley’s hand against the devil himself, or told Heaven to emphatically shove it, or spent the night at Crowley’s flat, and before this morning he never walked right into Hell to face not even God knew what.

There’s a conclusion Crowley can draw from all this, if he tries. He can see the shape of it, but he doesn’t let himself reach it. He's optimistic, sure, but there's a difference between optimism and setting himself up to get his heart broken. It would hurt too much if he was wrong, so he just takes the closeness he’s being offered and marvels at it.

He sinks further down into the sofa, and tentatively allows his knee to bump into Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale doesn’t do anything, so Crowley counts it as a win, watching his throat bob as he sips his wine, feeling a little jealous of the glass every time Aziraphale brings his lips to it.

Alright. Maybe Crowley’s actually spending too much time watching Aziraphale now. He peels his glasses off, removing the barrier so he’ll have to knock it off and try to be normal, leaves them on the table beside the wine bottle.

“So,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley finds he’s the one being watched when he looks back up.

Crowley waits a moment, but Aziraphale doesn’t say anything else, just keeps his eyes locked firmly on Crowley’s in a way that makes him feel… not self-conscious, but _seen_ in a way he’s not accustomed to.

He looks down into his glass own when it all becomes too much. “So.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries again. His tone gets Crowley’s attention, not quite a question but not quite _not_ a question, either, and his eyes flick back up.

“Yeah, angel?”

Aziraphale turns to face Crowley, sitting sideways on the couch. He regards him for a moment, brows pinched almost imperceptibly together. Finally, he downs the rest of his wine in one swallow and puts the empty glass aside, and then Crowley’s got his full attention.

Aziraphale takes a long, deep breath, lets it out in a rush. “I have been… Well, all day I've been… trying to find the right way to go about this, trying to find the right words, trying to. Oh, I don’t know. Make it sound more poetic, or romantic, or, or something like that, but that’s just.” He shakes his head. “If I let myself get worked up trying to find the _right way_ to say it, I just won’t ever actually say it, and that. That won’t do at all.”

Crowley stops breathing. “Angel,” he says cautiously.

Aziraphale gives him a shaky smile. “Do you know,” he goes on, before Crowley can say anything else. “The humans call each other angel, too. Do you know how they use it? They use it when they’re being… affectionate with one another. They use it like… some kind of endearment. They call each other angel when, when they love each other.”

Crowley swallows, pretends not to be acutely aware of this fact already. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nods. “And I’ve been thinking. I think they must’ve picked that up somewhere; they must’ve—”

Crowley’s heart kicks into overdrive. “ _Aziraphale_ —”

“Oh, please let me finish,” Aziraphale says, and his tone is so gentle Crowley can’t help but shut his mouth. Half of him is filled with abject fear, but the other takes in the expression on Aziraphale’s face, the softness in his eyes, and feels nothing but protected. “I think—” he reaches out, and covers Crowley’s hand with his own— “They had to have heard someone saying it, affectionately, like they were talking to someone they loved, and they sort of picked it up themselves. _And_.”

Aziraphale keeps pushing forward before Crowley can withdraw completely, “and, Crowley, I know I’ve been. Well, I’ve said some… unkind things to you over the years. In fact, I’d say I’ve been fairly horrible to you, at times—"

Crowley makes a sharp noise in protest (Aziraphale, horrible. _As if_. Plenty of people have been horrible to Crowley over the millennia, and Aziraphale definitely doesn't make the cut), but Aziraphale barrels onward without letting him get a word in.

"But the world almost _ended_ , we almost— _I_ almost lost _everything_ , and I’ve spent so long trying to keep you safe I hardly even stopped to realize that I might not have treated you the way you deserve to be treated. Our world was almost destroyed, And...”

He picks up Crowley’s hand, now, between both of his, and Crowley’s brain and his body all but stop communicating entirely, like a pathetic lovestruck deer caught in headlights, and Someone help him, Aziraphale’s hands are _warm_. “I could have lost my chance to let you know… just how important you are to me.”

Crowley, who still has tenuous control over his limbs, very nearly lets his own glass — which has gone completely forgotten, until now — slip right through his fingers.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley feels one of Aziraphale’s hands leave his own like someone’s just dropped an ice cube down his shirt.

But then Aziraphale catches him, steadies his hand. “I’ll just—” he slips the glass out of Crowley’s unresisting fingers, places it beside his own empty one on the table. “There we are.” He turns back to Crowley. “Right. Were was I? Ah, yes." He nods. "What I mean to say is… I always thought getting close to you would put you in danger, but in the end it was. Well, quite the opposite, yes? We keep each other safe, and I think we— _I_ , wasted a lot of time, and I don’t want to waste anymore pretending you’re anything less but the dearest thing in my heart.”

Aziraphale stops talking. He must be done, finally, but it takes Crowley a moment for his brain to catch up with this plane of reality.

“Wait,” Crowley says, “wait. Angel. Wait, I—” He takes a deep breath, and lets it out almost painfully slowly. “Just. Just to be clear, do you mean. Does this mean—?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and then, without any bloody warning, he slips his hand up to cup Crowley’s cheek. “Crowley, dearheart, what I mean is that you make me happy, and I think — or, at least, I hope — that I make you happy, too. What I mean is, I am in love with you, and if you’ll have me, I would very much like to be with you.”

Crowley… is convinced, for a moment, that he’s slipped into a dream.

His heart might have stopped beating.

“If I— Y—”

And then he gives up on speech entirely, and, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses forward and kisses Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale, after what feels like an hour or so but is probably closer to about half a second, kisses him back.

Crowley’s thought about this, imagined this, _dreamed_ about this, copiously and at length, but all that imagining and dreaming and thinking has clearly done nothing to prepare him for the reality.

It feels like… Like Crowley’s been drowning, stuck underwater all his life, all 6,000-plus years he’s been on Earth and all that time he spent in Heaven and Hell before time had been invented besides, only he didn’t even realize it until now, until he breaks the surface and he can _breathe_ again, pulled upwards by Aziraphale's firm grip.

Kissing Aziraphale, being loved by Aziraphale, it’s finally taking a breath.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale manages between kisses, so close Crowley can feel his breath on his lips.

“I love you,” Crowley says, the moment his lips are unoccupied. " _I love you_." He goes in for another kiss. “Obviously.” And another. “ _Obviously_. Of course I love you.”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale, and Aziraphale keeps kissing him. Crowley wraps his arms around him, melts against him and holds him close, and Aziraphale’s arms are around him too, holding him just as close, and Crowley…

Crowley knew he wanted this. He has known that for a very long time, but somehow he never realized just how _badly_ he wanted it. There’s an ache somewhere inside of him that finally soothes itself, easing away as Aziraphale’s hand tangles in his hair, as he bites gently at Crowley’s bottom lip.

It's Aziraphale who breaks the kiss. He draws back, slowly, and Crowley makes a very involuntary and very embarrassing noise as he does, pitching forward slightly, like a magnet pulled towards Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, hands slipping down to hold onto Crowley’s face.

It takes a minute, but Crowley eventually manages to open his eyes, clear all the fog from his head.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asks gently.

Crowley blinks. Everything is fucking _marvelous,_ obviously _._ “Wh—” Only, he didn’t realize, not until Aziraphale’s hands move from his face down to his shoulders, that’s he’s shivering. Except, no, that’s not the right word for it. Crowley is _trembling_. It’s barely noticeable, unless you’re pressed flush against each other, like he and Aziraphale just were. “Yeah. Yeah, yes. Fine.”

“Are you sure? You’re—” Aziraphale runs a thumb over his cheek, and to Crowley’s utter mortification, it comes away wet.

“Ngh,” Crowley blinks, reeling back (not far enough to dislodge Aziraphale’s hands, mind you) and rubbing at his eyes. He shakes his head. “’S’nothing, angel, really. I’m fine.” And he is; he's more than fine. He’s… Happy, well and truly out of his bloody _mind_ happy, it’s just. A lot.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, again, and it’s so gentle and open it draws Crowley in, pulls at his heart. “If something’s wrong, I’d like to know.”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” Crowley tells him. Unsure what to do with his hands now, he lets them fall into his lap, where they start fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve almost of their own volition.

Aziraphale gives him a look, and stills Crowley’s hands by taking them in his own. “Can you tell me about it anyways, then?”

Crowley freezes for a moment. “It’s stupid,” he hedges.

“Not as stupid as that time we misplaced the son of Satan, I would wager.”

Crowley almost smiles. _We_ , he says. Crowley sees it for what it is: a concession made, given to Crowley after pushing back against him all week. Alright. Meeting in the middle. He can do that.

“It’s just—“ he starts, then has to stop, gather his wits, put his words into some kind of order. He bites the inside of his cheek. “You can’t make fun of me, alright?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m not going to make fun of you,” he promises.

Crowley nods. "It's..." He looks down at their joined hands, and takes a long, deep breath. “We’re not— We’re not supposed to need this, y’know?” He lifts their joined hands up, lets them fall again. “You and I. Angels, demons. We're not meant to need all this. This touchy-feely stuff, all this affection, this—” a hitch in his breath— “Love.”

He still can’t quite manage to look at Aziraphale, but now that he’s started talking he can’t seem to stop.

“The humans do, right? They need it. They actually _need_ it, like they need food or a warm place to sleep. They need to touch each other and comfort each other and hold onto each other or they hurt. They need to be close to each other, but. We don’t. We _shouldn’t_. We’re not supposed to, but. But.”

He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands, perhaps a bit tighter than is really necessary, or even comfortable, but it reassures him nonetheless. At least the shaking stops, even if there’s still a prickle in his eyes warning him that there’s still tears gathering there, wanting to escape.

“But I.” And this is the hard part. The part where he has to actually make himself _vulnerable_. This bit never goes well for him, but Aziraphale’s the only person he trusts in this plane and the next, and he has to trust him now. “I do. I need it, or at least I _want_ it so much it aches sometimes.” He steals a quick look up at Aziraphale’s face before his eyes dart back down to stare at the point where Aziraphale’s thumb rests on the back of his knuckles. “And I never _got_ any of that before now, so it’s all. A-a bit overwhelming. In a good way,” he’s hasty to add, “but still. Six-thousand-years of wanting something does funny things to a guy, doesn’t it?”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale finally says. “When have either of us ever done anything we were _supposed_ to do? If you and I were any good at doing what angels and demons are supposed to do, we wouldn’t be here. There might not even be a _here_ to speak of.”

His hands are so warm, where they hold onto Crowley just as tight as he’s holding onto Aziraphale. So warm Crowley can’t help but feeling like he’s never been properly warm in his life up until this moment. He feels like the rest of him is freezing in contrast, wants Aziraphale’s hands all over him all at once, somehow.

“I’m plenty used to doing what I’m not supposed to do,” Crowley manages, a watery quaver to his voice. “It’s this. It’s the, the getting good things out of it that's new. Not sure if you’ve noticed, angel, but I’m pretty spectacular at making a mess of things for myself. Don’t want to make a mess of this.”

“You can’t make a mess of being in love, dear,” Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley almost laughs, but the sound that bubbles up is more of a sob, shaky and tremulous. It hurts a little coming out. “Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?”

Aziraphale’s hands are on his face again, tilting his chin up so they’re eye-to-eye and locking onto his gaze. “Crowley, listen to me," he says, "I know you, and I love you, and you are not going to make a mess of this. You _can’t_. If you want something from me, just _ask me_ , because I want this, too, Crowley, and I want us both to have it; I very much want the two of us to just be _happy_ for a change.”

All Crowley can say to that is, “I love you.”

Aziraphale’s face opens into a soft smile. “I love you.”

“That’s all I really want, angel,” Crowley tells him. “I want to love you, and I want you to love me. Properly. And not be afraid to do it. And, uh.”

“And?”

Crowley’s hands cover Aziraphale’s, hanging onto his wrists. “And this is nice, too. The, erm.”

“The holding onto each other?” Aziraphale supplies for him.

“Hey,” Crowley protests, “you said you wouldn’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not, my love, I’m really not,” Aziraphale assures him, hands slipped down to Crowley’s neck, his fingers finding the hair at his nape and making a nice little home there, his pinky slipping beneath the collar of Crowley's shirt, resting on his skin.

Crowley believes him. His shoulders slump under Aziraphale’s touch, turning to jelly. “The holding each other,” he agrees. His hands run down Aziraphale's arms, his shoulders, finally find their way to Aziraphale’s waist. “Yeah, I. I like that bit. I want that bit.”

Aziraphale hums contentedly. “I want that too, Crowley,” he tells him, voice dropping, a soft murmur.

With a very undignified noise, Crowley lets his head slump forward onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, falling entirely into Aziraphale’s space. He’s okay, though, he’s safe, with Aziraphale’s arms tightening around his shoulders, holding him and pulling him close, closer, and finally the warmth is everywhere, enveloping him, as Crowley’s arms snake around Aziraphale’s back and latch on like his life depends on it.

Even with no space remaining between them, Crowley squirms closer, nuzzles his face against Aziraphale’s neck.  Feeling Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, rubbing at his back, is quite possibly the best feeling Crowley has experienced in his eternal life.

Maybe demons weren't originally designed to eat, or drink, or sleep, or fall in love with angels, or crave touch like a starving person craves a meal; maybe those things have historically been reserved for humans, but what does that matter?

Crowley’s been human-shaped for nearly as long as humans have existed. He’s been on earth learning and growing and loving right alongside them since the Beginning.  And he hasn’t been doing it alone.

He and Aziraphale may not be humans, but after six millennia plenty of humanity has rubbed off on them.

They won the right to their humanity when they faced all the forces of Heaven and Hell and put their lives on the line for the Earth and its inhabitants. Crowley has always been optimistic, but even he never really believed they’d get here, so if they act a little (or more than a little) human, after _this long_ , it’s just because they _want to_ , and they deserve to.

**Author's Note:**

> i know i use a lot of commas and em dashes but yeesh guys i think this one takes the cake. thank u all for reading, hope u liked it !! feel free to come say hi to me on my [tumblr](https://lovesickcrowley.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined ! 
> 
> title comes from 'carry the weight' by morgxn, which is a big crowley song imho.


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